Masks we wear (writing challenge for faces of loss)

The mask I have worn for the past 8 months has been a fright mask. One contorted in pain, tracks of tears visible down my face. One that looks as if I'm screaming in silence.

Sure I've covered the mask with my "I'm fine, look, I'm wearing pants!" mask.

The other night I had a conversation with a very wise man. One who, in the beginning didn't understand why my pain was eating me alive. Didn't understand exactly what the last 8 months have been like. During our conversation, which had me in tears, I explained to him that our daughter had died in my womb, that my body had failed her. That we labored and delivered our child, the one who's bones were broken. The one who's ribs were all fractured. We delivered her into silence. I think he understood why I am the broken one now. I think he got it.

He picked his words carefully and with great weight and meaning. He told me I need to open my heart, and let her go. Not forget her. Just let her go. I have been desperatly holding onto Leta, this child that I never met, this child of my body. I have been clinging to her. I need pray, and I need to let her be in peace.

Now anyone else saying this to me would have fighting words. It would have raised my hackles and I would have POUNCED. But this man, is a wise one. I respect his words, his truth, his peace. So I listened.

What I took away was there will be a time that I am ready to say goodbye to Leta Blue. To "Let her go" To give her to a higher power. That time is not now, but I feel that it will be soon, has to be soon.

So my mask will remain, both of them will. The terrible scary heartbroken one that I show only to a few. And the "I'm okay, lookatme i'm wearing pants" one that I show to everyone else.

I do see, in the future the mask that I will wear. I see the peace on her face. I see the acceptance. I see the faith. However, that mask will come complete with an empty baby shaped spot in my heart. I can let her go, but I can never, ever forget her. My baby. My Leta Blue.

Dear Leta

Dear Leta, 7 months have gone by since we said good bye to you. Today Mommy took a walk down to the river. I seem very drawn to the river lately. I sat on the bank and stared into the water thinking about you. I don't really know how to feel right now. I know that the penetrating sadness of the last few months is lifting a bit. But I look around at the world and think of all the things I wanted to show you. I picked out a smooth tiny river rock to put in your memory box. I imagine that rock has had a very rough journey, much like you and I. It's been worn down by the current until it was smooth and round, no longer carrying it's rough edges. Maybe that's how I feel. Not numb exactly, just smoothed out. Worn down by the current of this last year.
The leaves are starting to turn. They hung yellow over the water. I picked one for your memory box. The leaves are turning, the seasons are changing. Soon it will be winter. Icy like the day you came into this world. I keep hoping that each month will bring change within me. I am searching for peace after my world was broken and ripped apart.
Seven months seems to have gone past slowly, living each day on this planet without you. Seven months Leta.
Last night, Mommy was missing you so much. I read "Good Night Moon" to your brothers and sisters, and you. The story made me think of you. I know your little spirit is all around us. In the stars, the breeze, the air. I love you so much My tiny little daughter. Good night stars, good night air, good night noises, everywhere.
I love you Leta Blue
Love Mommy

Farewell to Normal

Today I shopped for Halloween costumes for the kids. I was doing something normal, something I've done for the last 10 Halloweens. Nothing unusual. Except. Except. I should have been buying a tiny little baby costume. Something disgustingly cute, like a hotdog, or a bumblebee. I can't buy a costume for a dead baby. Or I could, but you know, that's the kind of crazy I'm really trying to avoid here.
Last night I cleaned my room. Normal right? See the normal girl, doing the normal everyday things? I got all done, and made my bed. I put Leta's blanket on it, the one that Jim had embroidered with Leta's name the day before her funeral. I just threw it on the bed, but her name was face up. I felt like I'd been sucker punched in the heart, seeing her name and birth date. That's such an apt description too. Sucker punched in the heart. I had to stop and catch my breath. It's those sneaky little reminders that are going to do me in.

I don't mean I want to erase, or forget about her. No way. I just mean, when I least expect it, I'm going to be mauled by such pain that I cannot fully take a breath. That's my new normal. That's my new life.

A little tantrum for the soul

Everyone thinks I'm better. I'm not. I'm just really really talented at pretending, apparently. This morning has started out rough. Claire didn't want to wear pants to school. She wanted a dress, I guess. But it was cold, so pants were totally happeneing. She melted down, melted into this angry ball of pissed offedness, and ire. Red faced and screaming, I held her tiny foot in my hand and put her socks on for her. I dressed my 6 year old much like a baby. The whole time, she was keening. Socks, Pants, shirt, sweater. Each item making her more and more mad. Ponytail, barrettes, brush teeth. I quitely crooned to her the whole time. And that, that is not how I normally would have handeled it. I would have been enraged with it! I would have yelled, and fought and been so furious. I didn't get angry. Sure I wasn't turning cartwheels that my 6 almost 7 year old was acting like a baby. But I wasn't mad at HER. I understood. There are days where if you could see into my heart, my mind, my soul, you would see ME screaming and yelling and hysterically crying. You would see me throwing the mother of all tantrums. I'm angry! I don't want to do this thing anymore, be the mother of a dead baby. I want to go back to the time where I was happy. Life was good! I want to be ME, before. It's not at all fair that I lost Leta. It's not at all what is supposed to happen. I wasn't supposed to give birth to a dead child. One with broken bones. I wasn't, am not at all equipped to handle this.

And so, Today I dressed my 6 year old, and crooned to her. I hugged her, and held her and wiped away her tears. I walked her onto the bus.

Sometimes, we all need some patience and understanding. Maybe in doing for Claire, I was doing for me what no one seems able or willing to do.

My Husband is a man, much like any other man, on the outside. If you passed him on the street you might give him a cursory glance, perhaps check him out. He appears to be Mr. Middle America. Jeans? Check. Begging kids trailing behind? Check, Check and Check.
But stop for a second. Take a closer look. Notice the crinkles around his eyes? He got those from smiling at me and our babies. Notice the worry lines on his forehead? Those are from the many sleepless nights he has spent listening to my worries, or rocking a baby back to sleep after they've had a bad dream. Keep looking. Do you see the slightly graying temples? All me. (and maybe a little bit of the kids) Look even closer now. Look at his soft kind eyes. His eyes tell you everything you need to know about this man. This man that you might not take a second glance at, is a hero.
He is an ouchie kisser, a bed time story reader, supreme ice cream cone maker, piggy tail doing, couch snuggling DADDY! A slayer of dragons, a leader of prayer, a calmer of fears, a rock that we, his family cling to in times of sadness, in times of joy. A hero in the truest sense of the word.
Look again and notice the deep sadness that is right at the surface.
This year has been especially tough for us. Him. This year my Husband and I, we lost our child. Our Daughter. Our Leta Blue. While I keened like a wounded animal, he was there, picking me up off the floor. While I sobbed and screamed in anger, he was there. And while I pushed our child from my womb, our child, so still and silent, He was there. And afterwords, when they had wrapped our stillborn daughter in a blanket and taken her away, away to a cold dark place where Mommy could not hold her. Away. He was there. His arms held me as our tears mixed together. Both of us clutching her blanket. As I questioned the fairness of it all, he was there with reassuring words, reminders of our faith, and touches and glances. As I could not hold myself up on the day of our Daughters funeral, he was there letting me lean into him. He was my strength. Is. And as I grieve for our Daughter, the one we could no see. The one who came too soon, and was born too silently. He is there. He is there.
A calmer of my fears. A soother of my agony. A kisser away of my tears. My love. My rock. My best friend. My Hero. My Husband.

Expecting, or why I am a ball of hurt

Expecting. To look for; to look forward to, as to something that is believed to be about to happen or come; to look for with some confidence to anticipate.

Two lines on the test. There were two lines. After 6 years of infertility, We had given up, put it out of our minds. God had blessed us 3 fold with our son, and our twin girls. What more could we have asked for really? But, there it was. Proof of our labor, two lines. Two lines, not expected, anticipated, but definitely wanted.
We were expecting! Looking forward to! Anticipating the arrival of our fourth (and final) miracle!

At the doctor they did another test. Negative. Disbelieving, heartbroken, crushed. Tears, oh so many gut wrenching tears! I recall being terribly ill the next week, being rushed to the ER. “Any chance you might be pregnant?” A sad shake of my head. Warm blanket wrapped around me. It smelled like the top of a newborns head. Baby. I was warmed, comforted by this, by the voice inside telling me to wait, be patient.
The ER doctor delivering the news, PREGNANT indeed! 9 weeks along, heartbeat on the screen, no denying this! Our little family was so excited, expecting! Looking forward to! Anticipating!
A summer baby! July. Weeks went by, filled with OB appointments, and morning sickness. Oh morning sickness! Like I had never experienced before! Hospitalized for dehydration. Hyper emesis gravidium they said. So sick, miserable. But still seeing the light at the end of the tunnel; baby.
Big belly, so big! I was so proud of that glorious belly! Our children touching my belly, talking to, singing to. And then! Day after Christmas, our baby moves! She’s moving, kicking, swirling, turning! Proof of life. More weeks go by, we are finally past the “danger” point, onto the second trimester, the “safe” period. Breathe sigh of relief. During my next OB appt, discussing tests, opting not to have the AFP. Feeling the need the urge to tell my OB something doesn’t feel right, but not wanting to be laughed at. Something feels wrong, something is wrong with baby. Can’t shake this. But she’s moving, twirling, pushing. Surely, surely I’m just paranoid. It’s been so long since I was pregnant, but not remembering this feeling.
On top of the world, big belly, so big! Driving and singing. The song “with arms wide open” coming on the radio. Crying. Such a moving song. Contraction, tightening! Odd. Too early for Braxton hicks, surely? Strange feeling. Not just the tightening of my belly, strange sense of foreboding. But tomorrow is our ultrasound! Tomorrow we find out if our bean is a boy or a girl! Home, lay down, sleep, surely the strange feeling will stop soon?
Next morning, drinking two bottles of orange juice, waking up baby for our big scan! Wake up baby, wake up! Joking, lighthearted.
During our scan, the scan with all our children present. The scan that is supposed to be a joyous occasion. Silence. Why isn’t the tech playing the heartbeat? Why does baby look so different? Tech tells us a GIRL! A girl a girl a girl! Oh! Happy! So happy, but something is holding me back, it all feels fake, pretend. I cannot imagine our family with a baby, let alone a girl baby. When will I feel happy, excited? Walmart to buy our first PINK things! My phone kept ringing, ringing. Number not recognized. Ignore. Ringing and ringing . At home finally answer. It’s the on call Ob. No heartbeat, no heartbeat she says. Come into the hospital and let’s check again. Animal keening, falling to the floor. No heartbeat. I knew. I knew. This baby. I knew. I knew I knew I knew.
Hospital ultrasound, silence. Too quite too quite too quite. No heartbeat, “I’m sorry she’s gone” No. No no no no no. Not true. Can’t be true! How could our daughter, our baby be gone? Dead? She’s dead and she’s my baby and she’s not here. I should have known, felt when her spirit left me! I’m her mother!
Upstairs. Quite corner of labor and delivery. Can hear babies crying in the nursery, am in a dream. Flower with a tear drop on our door. We are the family to avoid! Don’t come near us, our baby is dead! It might be catching, the dead baby thing! Stay away. People to be pitied! Dead baby!
Labor is started, phone calls. I don’t know who I called. People showing up to pray with us, comfort us. It doesn’t help. She’s dead. My baby is dead, yours isn’t. Life is not fair. I have to push my dead daughter out of my body. All the pain of labor with none of the reward. Physical pain with emotional pain. Labor. To work hard. Doesn’t begin to describe the journey we are about to take.
Sympathetic, pathetic. Dead baby in room 316.
Hours of labor. Hours of knowing what is about to happen, denying it. Hoping within hope that they are wrong! She’s not dead! Broken machine! Whoops!
Middle of the night, I awake from a restless sleep. Someone is next to my bed. There is a light, something next to me. Someone is speaking to me. “Let me go” its saying. “It’s time to let me go Mom” “No! "I say. I’m not ready, I can’t do this, don’t leave! It’s time. I love you, daughter. I loved you I love you.
My eyes open, my water breaks. It is time. I am not ready but it is time to push my dead daughter from within me. My womb. I push. I push I push I push. I lose track of what I’m doing. Eyes locked into my husbands. Don’t look away. If I look away surely, surely I will die. I want to die. She’s alone, all alone. One of us should be with her! She’s a baby! Alone. Tears are running down our faces. I push. She’s here. She’s here and it’s silent. It’s too quiet! I just had a baby, and it’s too quiet! No one says a word, makes a sound. The doctor holding her. She fits in her hand. She’s tiny, and not well, my daughter. She’s broken, and dead. My daughter. Why, how did I not know? I didn’t KNOW! I, maybe I could have done something? She’s dead, and It’s my fault and I wish it were me. It’s not fair. They won’t let me see her. She’s dead, and broken and they won’t let me see my daughter. Before they take her, I tell the doctor, her name is Leta Blue. Her name is Leta. She’s my daughter, my flesh and blood, she’s dead. Leta. Leta Leta. She’s taken from us. Taken from the only home she’s known. The warmth of my womb to the coldness of the morgue. What is going on? I have a child in the morgue? How can this be my reality?? I am torn. Empty. I am empty. I was expecting a baby, not a funeral! She can’t be dead, it’s a mistake! It’s a nightmare! I want to wake up. My husband crawls into bed and we hold each other. We are holding on for dear life. Sobbing for this horrible tragic thing that has happened. How did we become this? We aren’t supposed to be the parents of a stillborn baby! This cannot be happening!
Everything is a blur. We are given small mementos of our daughter. A bunting she was wrapped in. So tiny. This cannot be real. Her hand prints and feet prints. So tiny, so…so perfect. A blanket. A bracelet with her name on it. This is all we have. We have no pictures. We have no first outfit, we only have last. Last outfit. We have outlived our child This is not the way it should be. I feel like a mental patient. I have lost my mind. They should give ME a death certificate. Part of me, the essential part of me has died with my child. Me and my child died this day, this cold February day. Death without life. No birth certificate. Only death. Death death death. Dead. So permanent. So forever.
I’m in a hospital room with a teardrop on the door and our daughter is in the morgue. Dead.
I don’t remember leaving the hospital. It’s probably good I don’t. I do remember driving past the funeral home knowing my baby was there alone. So alone. She’s scared, she’s alone, she wants her mama!
Sitting in the funeral home, writing our daughters obituary. What do you say about a life that didn’t get lived? Born and died. Same date. Infant daughter. Born and died. I want to tell the people that she kicked when her brother sang to her. She kicked when her daddy touched my belly. I want people to know her, the way I knew her. I am grieving alone. Only I knew her! Obituary, infant daughter, born and died same day. Should never be this way. I should be buying pink nursery things, not writing an obituary, sitting in this funeral home smelling of death and sadness. I should be knitting booties, not picking out an URN for my dead baby. Alone in this room, the cloying smell of death in the air. My baby daughter is alone in some cold unfriendly room in this stinking hell hole. Dead. The smell of death seeps through my pores.
I don’t know how we got out of there. Don’t know how we are alive. Everything is a blur. Her memorial service was lovely. Good friends set up the whole thing. My husband and I spoke. I don’t know what we said. I remember looking out and seeing the pity, the absolute pity. The "I’m glad it’s you and not me" looks. The pity killed me. Don’t pity me! Don’t feel sorry for me! This could be your daughter! Your son, your child. Don’t pity us!
Balloons. We released balloons for our Leta Blue. Balloons sent to heaven for our baby daughter. Born and died. Died before born. Take these broken wings and learn to fly. You were only waiting for this moment to arrive.
Balloons for my baby daughter. I cannot hold you. I cannot nourish you with my breast. I cannot dress you up in frilly pink dresses, and parade you around, hold you, love you . This is all I can do. balloons. Balloons and tears. If tears were kisses I’d have kissed you a million times now. My baby daughter, you flew away. You left silently. You lived silently. You died silently. My baby daughter, gone. Hold tight to the legs of all your angels. You are my forever, my baby blue.

Pants for the mentally ill

Today I plan on leaving the house again. I have to say again, and make it seem like a bigger deal than it is. It's not a big deal to me if I stay in my pajamas all day everyday. I think people THINK it's a big deal. Like wearing real pants will make everything OKAY. I think if they see me wearing real pants makeup jewelry perfume it makes THEM more comfortable. Makes them think less "dead baby" and more "normal life"

But the thing, and yeah there is always a thing with me, the thing is is that there IS no normal.There is no Okay. There is only before Leta and after Leta. Before death and after. Hers or mine? Both of ours? It's only before I was faced with words like ashes, and coffin and funeral.And after. Faced only with words like dead and lost and empty.

So back to the leaving of the house, I plan on leaving. That requires a shower, and makeup and clean clothes finding. That requires enough time and energy to plaster this fake smile on my face and try out my fake laughter. I have to make you feel comfortable. And think less crazy. Think I'm less crazy than I really am.

The leaving thing, the thing with leaving the house is that there are literally babies EVERYWHERE.There are the hugely pregnant teenage mothers, the pregnant ones smoking, the pregnant ones screaming at their little tiny children. Taking for granted. And the thought that I have, this thought that eats me up and makes me a likely candidate for the mental hospital is "I hope your baby doesn't die" I told that to Jim once, and I think he was appalled. Is it really that appalling? I do hope their baby doesn't die, but it's more a selfish victim like thought. It's not all apples and sweetness. Not at all.Say it in your most bitter victimized voice. I hope your baby doesn't die. Mine died, and I am a good mother and don't smokedrinkdodrugs or any of the other hideously inappropriate things that parents do sometimes. I hope your baby doesn't die. I hope mine didn't. Wouldn't shouldn't have died. I did things by the book. This baby died. Mine died.Yours didn't. won't I hope. I hope you know how lucky you are. I hope you get it. Don't take for granted. I say that, and I sit here and probably take for granted the fact that I have these three souls here that are in my care, my guardianship, that I am responsible for.I am not whole so I cannot wholly give of myself to these guys, and that is what they deserve, a whole mother. I am a damaged broken mother with a tear stained face. I am a mopey weepy mother listening to sad songs to express how I feel because I cannot say to the depths of my soul how sad and broken I really am.

I will get dressed because I have to. Life goes on for everyone else, not me. My life is stuck, stalled on Feb. 21st. My life as I knew it ended then, and I cannot will not have not made peace with this new life, this life I didn't want didn't ask for should not have. Why me why not me>?

So dressed. And I'll see all these happy disgusting pregnant women, and families with their new baby. I am not at the point I can feel happy for them. Selfish. I hope your baby doesn't die. It's this cycle, this endless self pity that isn't who I was but is certainly who I am as of now.

I know that someday I will look back and probably be ashamed of my inner thoughts, behavior but right now, when everything is dark and tastes of bitterness and resentment, I will get dressed, and pretend. Pretend to be whole and me and the person everyone wants me to be thinks I should be.

But frankly, if you look at my eyes you will see that I am the mother of a dead baby. And listen to my manic laughter, and know that it is for show, fake. My smile robotic and pasted on.

My heart and soul are black and broken and burnt.

That is what I am today. There is such rawness and bitterness inside me that should not be there.I am grappling with the fact that I lost my baby failed her somehow and grappling with these awful selfish feelings of victimization and desperation.

On the bad days

I have failed as your mother. I failed at the most primal thing that as a woman, I am expected, supposed to, wanted to do. I failed to keep my child alive and safe in my womb.

In February I failed. In August I was finally able to process that failure. To take the grief out of my pocket and examine it. It probably should have stayed there. Or been put in a box and locked. But the grief, it sat there in my pocket, heavy and cold for 6 months. I took it out, and examined it. Looked closely at it. My grief is not different from any other grief. It's not unique. It's cold and bitter and angry and empty. My grief has a name and it's called dead baby.

Everyday I awake, tired from nightmares, and disoriented. Thinking I should feed my baby, change my baby, love my baby. Then I remember and it rushes back to me like a punch to the chest. I remember that my baby is dead. I cannot nurse her, only nurse my grief. And I do. I do nurse it. I chain smoke my grief like it's going out of style. I took it out of my pocket, now I have to deal with it. I have to measure it, and examine it. I have to feed it, change it, love it. It's mine and it's what I'm left with.

I know I have much, much more. This husband. This family. But it's not her,and I know I have failed, am a failure, so I cannot allow myself to feel the happiness of those things. Cannot allow myself for one moment to be okay. I am not okay. I failed. I failed her, and them and him, and me. I know that. I carry that with me too. My twins,grief and failure.

What am I supposed to do with this grief? Am I supposed to turn it positive and change the world with it? Or am I supposed to let it eat me, consume me? He sees me not fighting and thinks that I've given up. Another failure. But he doesn't see my internal fight. My minute to minute second to second fight. I am battling with myself all day everyday. It's not your fault; you couldn't have done anything to save her. REALLY? How do you know? . I knew from the second this child was conceived that something was wrong and I didn't couldn't didn't say a word to anyone. That is my failure. My body failed me and I failed her. It's so beyond repair right now. I know I should see someone, reach out. But I cannot. I am drowning here, and cannot will not cannot see land.

So I hold my grief, now in the open, in the palm of my hand. It's black and hard and cold and angry. I carry it on my hip, jiggle it,rock it, sing to it. My grief is my baby. I must care for it, not fail it,the way I did her.

Her. A she. A tiny baby girl, a miracle baby girl. A light in me. My hope, my safety. And I let it slip away,in the night. I knew in my guts that she was not okay, knew it in my cells that she was to be born early and not okay. But didn't have enough faith in myself to tell anyone. Maybe that is the only way I failed. The not believing in myself? Maybe that is my lesson here.

Some days I'm so positive, knowing she had a mission and a body and came for a reason. Then there are the cold dark days. The days where I scream and cry inside myself. The day sthat I want to lie down and give up. The days where there is no hope, only this deep penetrating sadness. My body betrayed me. It betrayed me! It let me down and let them down and let her down. It stabbed me in the heart with this, and now expects to be okay. It robbed me of my child and made me have to have this ugly GRIEF this saturation of hurt hate cold that consumes me. I'm not all angel mommy in the arms of Jesus lala happyville. I'm angry. No one else is angry. I'm so mad! There is no peace to be had, not yet. Not until I've nursed this grief until the well dries up. Not until I've parented this grief, raised it and given it the tools to survive.

This is my emotional mind. My rational mind knows better. It knows where my child is, it knows that this too shall pass, it knows it knows it knows. But I want to be childish and allow my emotions to rule me right now. For 6 months I played the part I was expected to play. Now it's my turn to angry! I will scream and shout and curse and cry and gnash my teeth until all this rage is purged from me and I'm left with peace and light and happy flower kitty land thoughts! My rants are the thoughts of the crazy, the deranged, the locked up forever in a padded room. That is my inner turmoil and it must be spoken. I make you uncomfortable. That's okay. This grief is in us all, and we, all of us need to mourn and hurt and rant and scream and yell until we have vomited all of this pain and grief out of our bodies. We must get it all out if we have any chance of being whole ever again!

I will purge this, I will speak this way, and it will make everyone around me very uncomfortable. But I must, and I will. And it will come out, and we will, I will, my family will be okay.